


Stand on Sinking Sands

by andalucite



Category: The Mummy Returns (2001), The Mummy Series
Genre: Ephebophilia, Forced Feminization, Hand Feeding, M/M, Mounted Dildos, Overstimulation, Predicament Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 02:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14740025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andalucite/pseuds/andalucite
Summary: Even when Imhotep's attention is otherwise occupied, Alex cannot escape





	Stand on Sinking Sands

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dressed by your Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487947) by [Pakeha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pakeha/pseuds/Pakeha). 



> This fic follows the same rules as Pakeha's AU: Alex is aged up here to 16-17, rather than the child he is in the movie

“Tomorrow we stop to dig up more ancient curses.”

Imhotep held a piece of mango, warm and sticky, to Alex’ stubborn lips. The cursed priest smirked at this petty resistance, considering how much ground his Prize had lost in the last hours alone—the proof of which Imhotep reminded the boy of with a deliberate twitch of his hips.

Alex’ breath stuttered through his nose in desperate staccato and he tightened his jaw further. It was futile; Imhotep had the patience of centuries in the grave waiting to taste life again. He could wait.

Alex could not.

Despite his every determination not to let himself be fed from Imhotep’s hand like a child—worse, as he shivered under the intimacy of it, loathing in his chest and sharp arousal much lower—like a lover, Alex’ mouth traitorously watered. The day had been long, and Imhotep had not fed him between… between.

Alex was almost entirely naked—‘almost’ only if you counted the gold Imhotep had draped him in to be anything other than an obscenity, which Alex assuredly did not—in Imhotep’s lap, a late meal consisting solely of things sticky and sweet laid out before them.

The ancient priest was a furnace against Alex’ over sensitized skin, a curse and a blessing in the too cold desert air; Imhotep was a brand deep inside of Alex, a curse, a curse that burned constantly under his skin.

Imhotep ran his tongue wide and sure up Alex’ throat, catching a wayward drop of juice from the mango before it reached the gleaming collar he had locked around his Prize’ neck. Alex gasped, swallowing convulsively around Imhotep’s fingers as the priest stuffed the piece of fruit deep into his mouth before he could recover. Imhotep huffed in silent, smug amusement as Alex tried in vain to stop his choked gasping from turning into a jagged moan around his fingers

His Prize, sweet and fierce as he was, enjoyed Imhotep’s fingers gagging him, try as he would to deny it, just as he denied other, deeper pleasures. Lips locked possessively around the boy’s throat, there was little pleasure Alex could hide from Imhotep.

“I will be…” the priest sucked hard at an already established bruise and rolled his hips languidly, devouring every strung-out mewl and whimper Alex could not rein back after a day trapped on the train with his captor. “…occupied for the day, I am afraid. Hopefully you will not grow bored, my Prize.”

Alex dropped his head back like a rock to Imhotep’s wide shoulder—not surrendering, never surrendering to this monster, his enemy above all others—shaking with wantneed _desire_ —  


The great priest laughed, pushing Alex forward onto the low table their dinner was on and taking his pleasure with strong, sure thrusts, carelessly letting the boy fall into the remaining fruit. His Prize was a mess of sweetness he intended to grant as much time as needed to lick clean.

\---

The train stopped some time in the night; Imhotep left shortly after without waking Alex with oil-slick fingers penetrating the boy as had become routine. Despite being sticky with the remnants of sex and fruit, Alex slept deeply with exhaustion and a false sense of security lent by Imhotep’s promise of being otherwise occupied for an entire day.  


He should have known better after weeks spent in Imhotep’s burning hands.

Three servants woke him unceremoniously with cold wash cloths wiping him clean. They were quick and, to Alex’ humiliated rage, appreciative in their work. Never mind that he had been sleeping undisturbed for the first time in what now seemed an eternity, worn through by the physical demands of the undead priest who seemed to need no sleep nor hardly any rest at all between—

Well. Here, Alex’ body was not his own.

Still, he put up a good fight. Once cleaned to their satisfaction, two of the servants pinned him to the damp carpet-strewn floor of the train car by the arms while the third used one of the many vials of oil Imhotep kept around to anoint his body. Alex closed his eyes and turned his head to the side as the man worked sure, slick hands up his thighs, shame burning in his cheeks. It smelled like sex, sex and Imhotep and dark, smoky nights filled with drawn-out fucking and overwhelming stone—Alex’ dick twitched and the boy flinched hard as the servant reached between his legs and slid a finger into him, pouring more oil as he did.

“Fuck off—“ Alex choked, struggling anew under the burning humiliation of his clear arousal. The servant tending so thoroughly to his entrance, ensuring Alex was well-oiled and stretched, chuckled low in his throat and added a second finger, scissoring roughly. Alex jerked, thrashing about in the unyielding hands of his captors.

“Fuck you!” he hissed with as much venom as he could muster, if only to hide the catch and hitch of his breath. Damn them. Damn _him_. Damn Imhotep, ever-present in Alex’ mind and body even when he was gone.

As if responding to some unseen signal, the three servants—he didn’t know their names, didn’t want to know anything about them, oh god what did Imhotep mean by ‘bored’ why had he just swallowed that without concern—released him and adjusted the jewelry Imhotep adorned him with: the golden collar, just snug enough to be ever noticeable, with its thin gold chain hanging down Alex’ chest, the cursed bracelet that brought him here in the first place, a long chain of bells wrapped around his other wrist so that every movement chimed, matching anklets of golden bells and green glass beads, and a complex net of gold, turquoise, and glass that hung down his chest and jingled with every breath.

Jesus, every little movement and he chimed.

Not one of the burly servants touched the gleaming chain hanging from Imhotep’s collar around the boy’s neck, leaving it hanging to the floor between Alex’ feet. Satisfied with their efforts, they picked him up and half (and then fully, as Alex refused to walk on his own—whatever the damned priest had planned, Alex would not carry himself to it) carried Alex out into the desert sun. The light was blinding after a few days spent in transit, trapped in the train car with heavily curtained windows and lanterns at night (what was wrong with electric lights?), endless sky and endless sand dizzying in their scope.

“Where are we?” Alex craned his neck to see back, behind the train, the direction they had come—looking for—but it had been so long already (how long? He had lost track after too many days and nights spent naked on silk and stone)—

The only answer was the jewelry he wore echoing his movements with metallic music. He was sweating already in the direct sun, still morning but brutal in its intensity. They had crested a hill, and the sand swept down into a shallow depression that held deceptively modest ruins. Imhotep was there already; Alex found him with sickening ease, the priest’s bare shoulders—

No. Nothing about the cursed priest’s shoulders. Alex turned his gaze to the barely uncovered ruins. What could Imhotep hope to find here in a mere day? There was weeks’ worth of excavating that still needed to be done to even get to an entrance, to his eyes.

The servants carrying him set him down more carefully than they had picked him up, as they were all—Alex included—acutely aware of Imhotep’s presence. The priest had yet to even turn from the ruins, and Alex flinched from the thought that the lack of attention was even more troubling than when his world was devoured by Imhotep.

Sand beneath his feet suddenly flexed, as if filled with static. Imhotep, one hand thrown out, worked his strange magic to build a throne, huge even for a man as big as he. Alex curled his toes in the sand, remembering a different magic, heat and command and pleasure he could not—could not—

Damn it all, was there nothing the man could do that Alex did not connect to some unwanted obscenity?

Apprehension, a snake in his belly, squirmed higher.

Was there nothing that _Alex_ could do that the man did not connect with some obscenity?

If he were more brave, if he were stronger, if he were more like his father or his mother, Alex thought that he would run into the desert, damn the distance and damn the sand and damn the heat and thrice-damn the priest who was not watching him in this moment. But even as his legs braced to drop and take off, he could feel the weight of the chain hanging from his neck, the weight of magic still crackling in the air. If he ran—shame roiled alongside the snake—if he ran, what new levels of hell would be brought to his life?

He did not run. At some point in the last weeks, Imhotep—always defeated in his parents’ stories, always a man and never a god—had become an inevitability, something Alex could fight but never escape.

They marched him down the dune, towards the great throne Imhotep had built, Alex’ feet stumbling mechanically in the sand. He imagined he could feel Imhotep in each sliding grain, the ancient priest’s magic an extension of his body and so very alive, the very ground conspiring with his tormenter to open up and swallow him whole, hold him captive and entombed for so long as Imhotep did not grow _bored_ —

Alex did not finish many thoughts these days. Even his mind was a trap of quicksand.

He expected to be brought to the throne and chained at its feet like some favoured pet, though he had so far refused to think too hard on the matter. After all, was that not how Imhotep saw him? As some favoured _pet_ , slightly untrained but easily broken? Instead, the three servants lead him around the throne entirely, to what lay just behind it.

 _Fuck_.

“Hell no! No way! He can’t—I’m not—“ Oh god, oh god, fuck Imhotep _in particular_ , he hoped that the priest would trip and fall and _die in a hole in the ruins_ —

Behind the throne was a huge stone phallus, a brother to the one Imhotep had—Alex swallowed, heat not from the rising sun sparking in his groin, _traitor_ —wrecked him on so deliberately only a short (how long? how long?) time ago. Only this phallus was not meant for sitting on and riding.

This one was waist-high, a bit higher, on Alex, and while only a month ago he would not have been able to imagine the use of such a thing, now— _now_ —he had the experience to imagine. There was ample oil worked into his hole, so much that it leaked down the insides of his thighs (Jesus, when had he stopped noticing his nakedness?), the slick dampness suddenly forefront in his mind.

Alex stepped back, a half step at best, violent in his desire to flee—useless, futile, he raged against the brutes who forced him bodily forward, lifted high enough from the ground that only the chain that kept him close to Imhotep trailed in the sand.

His protests may as well have been clouds in the Sahara, for as much effect as they had. They settled him over the tip of the stone phallus after pouring too much oil over it so that it gleamed, forcing the boy to bear down slowly. More slowly than Imhotep would have, Alex thought with an edge of hysteria, whimpering at the cool slide of it against his inner walls. He was most certainly imagining it—had to be, had to be—but the warm, slow wind over the desert hills resolved itself for a moment into a hot, breathy chuckle against the back of his neck.

Imhotep was not watching, but the cursed priest was _here_.

There was no base to this stone phallus to bottom out against, no end that Alex could grasp. He bit his lip viciously to keep from keening when its tip bore against his prostate and past, every moment as full as he felt he could possibly be—oh god, it was so _deep_ already—and more full than the last. Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding, down his back sticky and stinging where it hit bruised teeth marks. His feet found sand at last, and it was only in that moment Alex realized the extent of Imhotep’s torturous plan.

The servants released him to carry his own weight on his feet—on the phallus buried so deep inside of him—and the sands _shifted_ under his toes, a strangled shout wringing itself past his lips as his balance swayed dangerously, the unforgiving stone yanking him back to centre, not allowing him to fall, fucking him in tiny motions as he struggled to stay on his toes and upright, each step pushing sand down and away and Imhotep’s stone phallus up and in—

Alex’ vision whited out for more time than he cared to think, his entire world narrowing to the grit of sand beneath his toes and the girth of stone devouring him from inside out. When he finally returned—hah!—to his senses, the boy had managed to find a careful balance in the sand and stone, shifting his weight carefully from foot to foot in order to slow rate at which his toes dug into the sand. While he had been—occupied—his arms had been chained down and back, not uncomfortably so but such that they were of little help in balancing his weight. There was no true balance to be had anyway; every movement, no matter how small magnified itself tenfold on the smooth shaft pressing against his prostate, announced in cheerful metallic jingling.

He had come once already, seed spilled on the sand before him, aching pressure in his groin not relieved in the slightest.

_Hopefully you will not grow bored, my Prize._

\---

The desert sun burned into Alex’ skin, his pulse pounding with dizzying strength in his head and in his dick. He felt as if he were being seared, each heartbeat bringing heat and fresh pain to the bruises Imhotep had left around his neck and down his back, bringing heat and fresh pleasure-that-was-pain to his dick and the tight—hah!—ring of muscle contracting helplessly around the great stone phallus.

Had it grown?

Could Imhotep do that?

\---

More time had passed without his marking it—while he marked every aching second, moaning and gasping for breath in turn, fighting the need to thrust, yanking his wrists against the chains and bells in blind desire to touch himself. The searing brilliance of the sun suddenly vanishing brought Alex abruptly out of his body.

His usual guard had set a silk awning over him, stretching from the back of Imhotep’s throne to just past where Alex stood, impaled and writhing with it. The huge man approached, heat and knowing in his eyes enough to make Alex close his own against the humiliation of awareness. Icily cold water poured into his mouth—open, panting, desperate and made into something the boy did not recognize at all by the ancient priest—and down his chest shocked them open again. He drank greedily, relishing the blessing of cold in his world so narrowed down to heat, heat, heat.

His body registered someone— _Imhotep, Imhotep_ —pulling on the chain that led to his collar before his brain did, fissions of a different kind of pleasure— _not pleasure_ —snaking down his spine. Imhotep’s voice, deep as the sands and rich with power, sounded behind him. The sound _pulled_ , and Alex’ world split into two; the stone phallus inexorably fucking him and _Imhotep_. The priest was shouting something, not at him, not to him, and the boy was confused until he remembered the throne.

No favoured pet on display, no, but not so far from that after all. Alex pulled forward on his collar, on his _leash_ , hated thing, rebelliously tilted away from the throne—damn the press of stone against his spine, damn the high whine of pleasure bordering on pain it cost him—and while Imhotep did not falter even slightly in whatever speech he was delivering (English? Arabic? Darkly ancient magical tongues? He was too strung out to even begin to tell), the priest _yanked_ on the chain, jerking Alex back with a startled cry, his precious balance thrown off. The phallus jumped forward, moving far too much for an immovable object.

The world descended into silvery whiteness once more.

\---

The next time Alex was brought water, it was not by Lock-Nah. Anck-su-Namun stood before him with casual arrogance, painted boldly in kohl and gold, dangling the dripping water skin just over his mouth until he returned to awareness.

There was something dangerous in her eyes, the boy thought as she looked him over, eyes lingering on his hard and weeping dick and then again on the seed spilled on sand between them. Her expression was clear and smooth as the skies, but in that moment Alex feared her more than Imhotep. The ancient priest wanted to claim him as a prize, spoils of the war with his parents; this woman, his equally ancient lover, would rather him dead in the arms of his weeping mother.

“I can see why he takes such time to… tame you,” Anck-su-Namun laughed, running a sharp nail down Alex’ chest, flicking the beaded net aside. “The results are certainly entertaining.”

She tilted her head to the side, and they both listened to the pathetic sounds of his broken breathing and teasing sound of bells (god, Imhotep must be able to hear every shift of Alex’ weight, every new crest of his pleasure) for a moment.

“Would you like some water?” she asked finally, holding the water skin up again.

Alex nodded desperately, pulling forward towards the water despite himself.

Anck-su-Namun smiled ever so slightly and upended the water skin over his seeking mouth, pouring the entire thing down his throat and chest with little regard for how much he managed to swallow. It tasted slightly sweeter than the last water he’d been given, slightly more… spicy.

“Enjoy.” She smiled fully, showing teeth, and deliberately swiped a deep groove in the sand next to Alex’ left foot before leaving.

The sand gave way and Alex slipped into the groove, keening high into a wail at the assault on his insides. The water _burned_ where it touched his skin, down his throat, and when the heat of it reached his groin—trickling down under his dick and between his thighs and _oh help oh god_ —Alex cut off with a strangled cry. _Ginger_ , it was ginger he tasted in his mouth and his lips were on _fire_ , swollen with bruises and ceaseless pleasure and now ginger. Alex' hips jerked forward helplessly, losing control of his body entirely against this new onslaught of heat. The boy thought he had known heat before, from the burning sun and sand and liquid fire of unyielding stone so deep inside of him, but this new heat was entirely different, entirely more desperate and needy.

This time, Alex fell headlong into a beating red haze, his throat raw with begging for any kind of mercy.

Like the stone phallus, like the sun glaring down at him, like the sand beneath his feet, Imhotep showed no mercy, no presence at all save for the light tugging around his throat, and Alex cried, tears mingling with sweat and spice, the blind need of his body opening up into a bottomless chasm of too much, too much, too much---

\---

Imhotep pulled open the door to the train car and slipped silently into the gilded cage he had built around his Prize. After successfully retrieving the treasure he and Anck-su-Namun had been after in the ruins, they had celebrated late into the night before departing for their ultimate destination once more. She had been wild with victory and lust, and he had been equally aroused—both of them driven to such heights not just by victory, but also by a day spent listening to Alex’ descent into absolute desperate depths of pleasure.

The priest had thought it a bit of a waste not to watch his Prize come unraveled until the very end, when Alex’ sweet and so very despairing begging had devolved into calling on his God over and over— _Imhotep, Imhotep, Imhotep **please**_ —

Well.

He breathed deep the scent of Alex, left uncleansed by Imhotep’s servants per his request; sex and the oil mix that the priest had stopped using for anything but on his Prize, the desert and spices—at first he had been angered by Anck-su-Namun’s presumption, but now he was disappointed he had not thought of it first, having listened to Alex reach new heights of pleasure while receiving the fruits of his follower’s excavation efforts.

“My sweet Prize,” Imhotep murmured fondly, draping himself over Alex with the grace of a jungle cat and licked salt from the sweat and tears of the boy’s struggles from his neck. Indulgently, he slipped two fingers into Alex, past the ring of muscle that was so thoroughly wrecked, spasming weakly around the intrusion. The boy shifted in his sleep, protesting faintly.

The priest had thought to take his Prize right there, in his sleep—the boy was certainly still loose enough, well prepared by a day fucked to bits by his own movements—but Alex turned, pressing his face into Imhotep’s broad chest and inhaled deeply before settling back into deeper sleep.

Perhaps there were different kinds of victory than taking his pleasure from his Prize unawares, Imhotep mused, pulling a tasseled pillow over to rest enough of his weight on that he did not crush Alex. Tomorrow, when Alex was awake enough to face his own actions and words of the day before, would be a _much_ more gratifying union.


End file.
